It only took a two-hour phone call with a friendly, often useless Dell customer service agent in Bombay to confirm what I already knew: That persistent, evil, wrenching, cracking noise my computer made Tuesday morning was not some poorly conceived and executed ode to the drumming of Gene Krupa.
My computer, she is dead.
At least 20 minutes of that marathon service call was spent repeating long strings of number and letter combinations back and forth with a girl whose grasp of English was just about as good as Donald Trump's grasp on modern hair styling.
And I realize this is not a unique story, that these things are just a collection of teeny-tiny parts that move really fast and occasionally go boom. But when I think about all the stuff I couldn't back up and need to replace, my left eye twitches to the beat of "The Macarena" as if performed by Motorhead.
Yeah, I've got all my invaluable word files stock with solopsistic unpublished writing. And I suppose I could round up a new collection of stolen music and family pictures. And somehow, I will find the time to re-generate that voluminous list of web links.
But I know what you're thinking. What about the porn? The primo, Peruvian-flake porn?
And I say: Shame on you and your sick mind.
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